Elizabeth’s eyes flashed. “I said as much to Count de Feria,” she said. “He liked that not! He…and my dear brother-in-law! …believe that my accession shall be due to His Grace’s good offices! I set them straight on that, I do assure you! It put de Feria’s nose out of joint well and good. But Cecil, what of my cousin Reginald? He is Archbishop of Canterbury. If he were to oppose me, would Catholic England follow him? He is Plantagenet; if my sister had married him instead of Philip of Spain, and their union was mooted more than once, it would be he who should be looking forward to ruling England in my sister’s stead, and not I.”
Cecil held the dish of red apples up to Elizabeth as she passed him by; she was as restless as a lioness and would not stay still. She grabbed one at random and began tossing it from hand to hand as she strode the length of the room. Sir William carefully selected his own red orb, polished it on his sleeve until it shone in the firelight, and began to peel it with his knife. “That is, of course, a concern, Your Grace. But forget not that the cardinal is accused of heresy by the pope and is under summons to Rome to answer the charges.”
“True,” replied Elizabeth. “But the Catholic nobles here in England desire interference from Rome no more than do the Reformers. It is the sticking point that may just save us. My worry is not associated so much with Reginald’s office as it is with my concern that His Eminence will not want to see all his efforts go for naught. He and my sister have done much in the past five years to try to restore England to the Catholic faith. Surely he must fear my intentions in that regard.”
“The cardinal is very ill, I hear.” Sir William did not look up from peeling his apple; he had almost the entire skin off in one piece. Despite the vast gulf that lay between them because of their religious beliefs, he and Reginald Pole were great friends. It was with regret that he thought of losing such a good friend, but to a Reformer such as himself, it was hard to rue the loss of such a high-placed, staunch Catholic as the cardinal.
Elizabeth stopped. “I have heard that, too.” Would it be too much to hope for, that Reginald Pole should follow her sister to the grave without delay? She had only met her cousin for the first time at Mary’s accession; he had been exiled to the Continent for refusing to recognize her father’s marriage to her mother, Queen Anne Boleyn. That was surely reason enough to hate him, but he had also caused two of her servants to be burnt, and for that she would never forgive him.
The crown was within her grasp; she could feel it in her very bones. But there were so many things that could go wrong; too many to name. And worrying about them all profited nothing. Prepare for the eventualities, yes…that was only wise. But above all, she must place her trust in God. And in Cecil’s good judgment! For neither had ever failed her yet.
Palace of Whitehall, November 1558
Sleep was a hard come by commodity when one suffered from the new ague. Even when on the mend, one would wake from a deep slumber with a jerk and a start for no reason at all. One would then lie for hours in such case, caught in that twilight world between hazy wakefulness and true healing rest.
The Archbishop of York had just dropped back into a blessed state of unconsciousness when he thought he heard someone calling his name. The sound seemed as if it were coming from a great distance; perhaps he was dreaming. That must be it. He ignored the ever-increasing urgency in the voice and sought to escape back into the warm, still world of oblivion that was sleep.
“I am sorry, Your Eminence, but I cannot rouse him,” said the deacon who attended the archbishop. “His Grace has been very ill of late and has only just begun to recover.”
Edmund Bonner, Bishop of London, wrung his hands in exasperation. “He must be awakened. Bishops and archbishops are ten to the penny in London. But there is only one Lord Chancellor! Let me try.”
Bonner approached the tumbled bed where lay the spent figure of Nicholas Heath; Archbishop of York he may be, but he was also Lord Chancellor of England. Bonner reached out a beefy hand and shook the archbishop’s shoulder. “Alas and alack! Disaster! Woe be unto us! For the evil hour is come! Awake, Good Nicholas, and hear of the calamity of the death of thy sovereign lady!”
Nicholas stirred; Bishop Bonner held a lantern and the deacon, who was standing behind him, gripped a candelabrum with three tapers in it. Combined, the light they threw onto him seemed as bright as the sun. So someone had been calling his name. Up and up, from the depths to which his mind had burrowed, his brain emerged. Disaster…woe…calamity…? “What is amiss?” he whispered.
“The queen, our Good Lady, our sovereign lady, is dead,” cried Bonner. Queen Mary had been ill for some time; all knew her death must be imminent. But now that it was upon them, Bonner felt a panic like none he had ever before known. It was as if they had been living in a shadow world, existing in a cocoon; but now the threads had fallen away and they were exposed to the horrors of what the world would now be like without a Catholic queen to protect them and all they stood for. All would be changed now.
Nicholas rubbed his eyes and reached out a hand. Bonner, who was closest, gripped his arm and helped him to sit. Nicholas swung his legs over the side of the bed; the bottoms of his feet hit the cold stone floor and it had the effect of someone dashing water into his face. “Jesu,” he said, shielding his eyes from the light of Bonner’s lantern. “Must I be blinded as well as dragged back from the only sleep I have had in days?”
Bonner turned and thrust the lantern into the hands of the deacon and shooed him away towards the door. “What are we to do?” he wailed.
“We must have Parliament proclaim the Princess Elizabeth queen at once,” said Nicholas. “England must not be without a reigning sovereign, not even for a day.”
Bonner’s eyes went wide with incredulity. “Impossible! All know the Princess Elizabeth to be a heretic!”
Nicholas held his spinning head in his shaking hands and spoke slowly and distinctly, as if to a child. “Not impossible…imperative! We must not delay even for an hour. If we do, the French will hear of it and use England’s presumed uncertainty of purpose to press the claim of Mary of Scotland. A Frenchwoman through and through, for all she was born in Scotland of a Scots king! Her Grace of Scotland was raised at the French court, her mother is a Frenchwoman, and she is married to a Frenchman, who will one day be king of that country. Think, man! We have no choice.”
Bonner gaped helplessly at Nicholas. “But…”
“God’s death, man, do you wish to see England as the hapless battleground of the French and the Spanish?” Nicholas made as if to tear at his own beard, then set his hands on both of his knobby knees. “If the French sniff even a hint of opposition to Her Grace’s immediate accession, they will invade through Scotland. If that happens, the King of Spain will invade from the south. His Grace may have to accede to the princess taking the throne, but he has great hopes of marrying her to consolidate…and perpetuate! …his position here in England. England in the possession of the French His Grace would simply not tolerate…and the result will be a savage war for possession of our island that will mean our utter destruction.”
Still Bonner said nothing, and stared into the distance as if pole-axed.
Impatiently Nicholas said, “Surely the queen’s death cannot come as a surprise! Her Grace has been ill for weeks. And now it is ended. We are caught between the Scylla of a Spanish king and the Charybdis of a French queen. We must put our faith in old King Harry’s daughter. Suspected heretic she may be, but she loves England and the English people love her. We must throw in our lot with the princess and hope for the best.”
Bonner pulled at his thick lower lip, deep in thought. It was true that the queen had been grievous ill but he had hoped she would recover, as many others had. Fully three-quarters of the population had been struck by the strange illness known as the new ague; new because it had none of the symptoms of the recurring illnesses with which the English were familiar. It was not as unfailingly fatal as the Sweating Sickness, nor as quick a killer a
s the Plague; in fact, although many were stricken, the mortality rate was less than one might expect. There was every chance that the queen should recover…but she had not. And now all was lost!
“Edmund, good man, get a message to the Speaker as fast as you can. Tell Cordell to gather the Commons into the House of Lords. Thank God in His mercy that parliament is sitting! They are still sitting?” asked Nicholas. Bonner nodded. “Good. That is good.” He was fully awake now; he looked about the room. “What hour of the clock is it?”
“Just past Prime, Your Eminence. About seven of the clock,” replied the deacon.
“Thank you, Matthew,” said Nicholas. “Matthew, fetch me water with which to wash, and bring my robes. Edmund, hie you to Sir William as I have bid you and see that he gets the men ready for me; tell them that they are to gather for a solemn announcement. And send for a litter to get me to Westminster. We have not a moment to lose.”
Palace of Westminster, November 1558
When the Lord Chancellor entered the Great Hall at Westminster the noise was deafening and all was pandemonium. Nicholas could not help thinking that all the chatter was a repetition between the Lords and the Commons of the arguments that he had presented earlier to the Bishop of London. Well, then, if argumentation was called for, then argue he must. They all simply must see sense. The fate of England was at stake.
Nicholas signaled the Speaker with a nod of his head and Sir William Cordell struck the stone floor three times with his great staff. All was immediately silent; all heads turned to regard the Lord Chancellor. Nicholas stood in his full archbishop’s regalia, even to his elaborate miter. He lifted his arms and in a firm, clear voice addressed the united Houses.
“The cause of your summons hither at this time is to inform you that it hath pleased Almighty God to call to his own our sovereign lady, Queen Mary. Even as heavy and grievous as this news is to us, so too have we cause to rejoice; for in His infinite mercy God hath provided us with a true and lawful inheratrix to the crown of this mighty realm of England. I speak of Her Grace, Elizabeth, our princess, second daughter to our late sovereign, he of noble memory, King Henry, the Eighth of that name, in our line of esteemed and illustrious rulers, and sister of our late queen. Her Grace’s lawful right and title to the crown, thanks be to God, we need not doubt.”
He paused; there were no dissenters.
“You of the Commons have been elected to represent the people of this realm, and to transact for them, and on their behalf, with our illustrious House of Lords in matters of state. There could be no better way to discharge that trust and duty than by joining with the Lords of this realm of England in immediately proclaiming the next succession to the crown. Therefore with all of your consents shall we pass hence from this place into the palace and there proclaim the Princess Elizabeth queen of this realm, and that without any further debate or delay of time.”
Nicholas’s heart was in his throat; the room was silent. And then suddenly there arose such a roar that none had ever yet heard in that place, where some lively debates and arguments had in the past been known to happen.
“God save Queen Elizabeth!” was the response of the Lords and Commons alike, to their Lord Chancellor. “Long may Queen Elizabeth reign over us!” cried some, and “God save the queen!” cried others. Some men embraced and others wept openly.
The shouts and cries went on for fully three minutes until Speaker Cordell again let fly his mighty staff. At the third ringing impact of metal on stone the Parliament was dissolved. And so through the wisdom of the Lord Chancellor, Queen Elizabeth’s accession was rendered indisputable, for to be proclaimed in this manner before both Houses and with their unanimous, not to mention enthusiastic, assents, the princess was made queen by yet another Act of Parliament.
As the clock struck noon, and to the clarion call of dozens of trumpets, the men of both Houses filed out of the Great Hall and made their way into the palace. The nobles and courtiers were all assembled in the throne room to witness Lancaster Herald proclaim that England had a new queen. When all were gathered an expectant silence filled the room. It was a formality, but one that was essential; all the correct and proper rites must be performed, and so they would be, throughout the day. It was especially significant that those who had remained at court and were present at this solemn proclamation were mostly the old queen’s supporters, the others having hied to Hatfield to ingratiate themselves with Elizabeth in anticipation of Mary’s death.
Nicholas breathed a sigh of relief as he heard the words ring out and touch the rafters:
“Elizabeth, by the grace of God queen of England, France, and Ireland…”
England was safe…for now.
Palace of Hatfield, November 1558
A thick mist had arisen just at dawn, turning the sunrise as golden as a sunset. Even though it was the fall, when the days were sunny, some heat was retained in the ground; enough to make the contrast of the cold nights produce a dreamlike haze until the sun burned it off. Elizabeth was an early riser, and very much attuned to the sun; she awakened with the dawn, regardless of the time. By the time she had attended Mass and breakfasted, the mist had disappeared to reveal a sky as blue as a harebell.
The palace was full to bursting with excited courtiers; all believed her sister’s death to be imminent. But still, the proprieties must be observed. It would be no less than treason for the heir to the throne to be seen to celebrate prematurely her accession to the throne. Escape was the only option. She took up her New Testament in Greek and made for the back door.
It felt good to be alone, her slippers wet with the dew that the mist had left behind, her destination the great oak tree upon the hill that overlooked the estate. Hatfield was the first home she could remember, and where she had been raised when not at court. Here she had fleeting memories of her mother, a shadowy image who was loving, kind, and always smelt of lavender.
A feeling of excitement mixed with a sort of dread filled her when she realized that her life was about to change forever. It would be difficult to find time then to be alone with her books. Best to enjoy such freedom now whilst she still could.
About her sister she was of two minds; part of her remembered the early years of her life when Mary, who was seventeen years her senior and also out of favor, had been as a mother to her. It was not until much later that she had been able to appreciate exactly what that meant; when she was still very young she had not known that her mother had supplanted Mary’s in her father’s affections. She had achieved that knowledge at the same time that she had been told how her mother died. The knowledge had shocked her; she had never been able to look at her father in quite the same way again.
Her father…another enigma! She recalled the days when he had made much of her, when he had held her in his enormous arms, bounced her up and down and called her his little princess. It was not until much later that she had been told that these displays of affection had been made to put a brave face on his chagrin over her not having been born a prince. It was not long after that people had ceased treating her with the respect due to a princess and heir to the throne; indeed, she was no longer addressed as Princess Elizabeth, she was now only the Lady Elizabeth. A sympathetic servant had told her why.
Any other child, made privy to such a terrible thing as the knowledge that her father had killed, murdered her mother, might have cried. She had simply been angry. She was young, but she was old enough to understand that her father was a king, and a feared one. From that time on she had admired him, she respected him in spite of everything, but love him she could not. And most humiliating of all was that he neither noticed nor seemed to care.
Her father had married again before her mother was cold in her grave, minus her lovely head; and after some time she remembered being told that she had a brother. She had cried then; why could not a brother have been born before it became necessary to murder her mother? But hard on the news that God had finally bestowed upon her father the prince, the heir for Engla
nd that was of such paramount importance, came the tidings that Queen Jane was dead. Elizabeth remembered Queen Jane; another shadowy image whom she had seen only a handful of times, and who was kind, but who smelt of roses instead of lavender.
And then had come Anne of Cleves. Merry Anne! Such a sweet, caring, lovable creature! And yet for some reason she had simply been unable to grasp at the time, her father abhorred the German princess and had divorced her before the ink was dry on their marriage contract. But Anne had not been executed, or even sent home to the Continent; she had stayed in England not as queen, but as the King’s Good Sister. Elizabeth loved Anne and was glad that she stayed.
Not long after that her father had married again, and this time he once again murdered a wife. This time she was frightened to the very core of her being. It became obvious to her that marriage, at least to a man such as her father, was neither a happy state nor a safe one. She was eight years old when Katherine Howard, her cousin, had been sent to the block, and old enough to understand what was happening. She told her good friend Robert Dudley, the son of Anne of Cleves’s Master of Horse, that she would never, ever marry. And she had meant what she said despite her young age.
Catherine Parr had come into her life as step-mother not long after. As with all of her father’s wives, she had offered this new queen her childish affection. That affection was returned and for a while she had enjoyed the only family life she had ever known, or was to know. But it was not long before even Catherine was put in peril of her head. Catherine was clever and had talked her way out of a trip to the block; but her danger had petrified her step-daughter and cemented even further her conviction that marriage, and men, were simply not safe.
In High Places Page 2